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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220040">Homesick</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/southbroflovski/pseuds/southbroflovski'>southbroflovski</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>South Park</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Coming of Age, Corona - Freeform, Current Events, Drama &amp; Romance, Eric Cartman Being Eric Cartman, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, No Smut, Pandemics, Quarantine, Romance, Teen Romance, Virus, inspired by current events</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:06:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,799</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/southbroflovski/pseuds/southbroflovski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A pandemic strikes, and South Park is just as lucky as everyone else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unbelievable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He pulls my hands up from my sides and squeezes an unnecessary amount of hand sanitizer in them, and then some into his own.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I barely have time to sit down after getting my lunch before hearing Kyle and Cartman bickering.</p><p>“Shut up fat ass, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”</p><p>”Mel Gibson said it, not me Kyle,” Cartman says in a taunting tone. I can almost hear Kyle clenching his teeth together.</p><p>I don’t even have to ask what they’re arguing about at this point. Cartman’s probably being an asshole and shit talking Jews. “Do you know how hard it is to hear you arguing constantly?” I say, trying to overt Cartman’s focus from Kyle before he cracks his own teeth in frustration.</p><p>“Not as hard as your boner for Kyle,” he says with a smirk. I’m usually good at ignoring Cartman’s stupid comments, but these kind are the ones that make my face feel hot. Butters is giggling next to Cartman as usual, and even Kenny chuckles so I shoot him a glare. He keeps giggling but gives an apologetic look.</p><p>“You’re unbelievable,” I roll my eyes at Cartman. I don’t think he’s matured whatsoever since I’ve known him in preschool. The second Kenny starts choking on the shitty cafeteria chicken sandwich, Cartman scoots away and purposefully makes a scene, exclaiming, “Kinny keep your stupid virus out of MY air you poor asshole!” Butters’ eyes widen. I notice Kyle tense up like he’s holding his breath beside me and I raise one of my eyebrows at him, but he doesn’t move.</p><p>I turn my attention to Kenny. “Are you okay dude?” I ask. He just nods while continuing to cough and I let him reach for my water. He chugs half of it in seconds, working out his last coughs in between.</p><p>“Aghh, god,” he sighs out when he finally stops. “Fuck you Cartman. Thanks, Stan. Here,” he offers the water bottle back to me.</p><p>Lunch continues as normal for the most part. When the bell rings, Kenny, Cartman, and Butters get ahead. Kyle searches in his pocket and pulls out something. “Give me that water bottle,” he says. I don’t object to it and he tosses it in the trash can sitting across the cafeteria. It goes in perfectly. A perk of Kyle being good at basketball is that he doesn’t have to walk all the way to trash cans to throw things away.</p><p>“Why’d you do that I was gonna drink it!” I spat. He pulls my hands up from my sides and squeezes an unnecessary amount of hand sanitizer in them, and then some into his own. “Dude is this because of the virus going around? You need to chill a little.”</p><p>He did not look happy when I said that. “Stan, you don’t understand how serious this could get. Just don’t question me yet.” And I don’t.</p><p>After lunch, the day passes quickly, without much going on, minus Bebe publicly breaking up with Clyde. I have to admit, I felt bad for him because she did it in front of everybody in the midst of all the hallway commotion. </p><p>Like most nights this week and the last, my parents watch the news for a couple hours, listening to them talk about the Corona virus. My mom watches it, at least. My dad was just snoozing on the couch from what I saw when I came downstairs for some Wheat Thins. From the kitchen I could hear my mom speaking to my unattentive dad about her rising concerns as the media continued blabbing. </p><p>“Stanley! Wash your hands before you eat those!” She commands, eyes still stuck to the TV. I huff in response, but do it anyways. I actually just put my hands under the water for a second, cause I really want Wheat Thins. Sometimes I get these weird cravings. Right now I’m craving Wheat Thins. </p><p>Under the covers, I plug in my AirPods to listen to music and shuffle my playlist a couple times until it lands on “Void” by The Neighbourhood. I’m shoveling the sweet but salty Wheat Thins into my mouth when I get a notification in Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, and I’s group chat.</p><p>Princess Kenny: guys watch this rn</p><p>I open the notification and see a link. It’s a trailer for a new Terrance and Phillip movie. That’s insane. </p><p>Me: whoa dude I thogh t they were done with those</p><p>KFCartman: HoLy shiT </p><p>Princess Kenny: IK</p><p>Kyley-B: NO WAY </p><p>Kyley-B: WE HAVE TO GO</p><p>Kyley-B: WITHOUT CARTMAN CAUSE HE’LL EAT ALL THE POPCORN LIKE LAST TIME</p><p>I grinned at Kyle’s text. He wasn’t joking. Cartman really did devour the whole bag of popcorn last time and we were pissed.</p><p>KFCartman: WoW didn’t your Bitch Mom teach you to share?</p><p>KFCartman: oH waiT you’re a JeW🤮</p><p>Kyley-B: fuck off fatass</p><p>Princess Kenny: it’s only a few months away </p><p>Me: I’m so down but cartmans gotta buy his own popcorn seriously</p><p>When the sending sound effect hums through my airpods, I open the link. It loads for a second before an ad pops up. Different news anchor voices overlap each other, saying <em> The Corona virus </em>and all waver into different sentences as dramatic text appears. Is this even an ad? Statistics flash on and off the screen to emphasize the increase in cases. Now some schools are even closing. Is that genuinely necessary? I sigh and sink into the sheets, my pillow forming a comfortable hole around my head and ruffling my hair. Before the trailer gets to end, I’m already out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this is my first work on here, started in March 2020:)in my opinion, this first chapter and kinda the next too are a bit short and I’d rather rewrite them differently, but after that I think it gets better.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sometimes, You Gotta Put On a Mask</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“How could you not know?”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something about today feels off. The day goes by in a weird fashion, and I can’t explain it in any other way except that it feels like it isn’t really happening. By now it’s around 2 something, and the beginning of biology for me. Students are still crowding the halls and flocking to their last class of the day. From inside the room it’s hard to see but there’s a huge yellow thing in the hallway. Hell if I know what it is. If it’s some senior prank thing, usually those are at the end of the year, right? I peer through the door window to take a closer look. I think it’s a person in a hazmat suit? Why is everyone overreacting? There’s only been a few cases of this virus in Colorado and it doesn’t even affect everyone. I don’t get it. It’s not as bad as everyone thinks.</p><p>I hear a familiar voice call my name from outside the room. “Stan,” she says, waving at me. “Can you come with me quick?”. It’s not usual for Wendy to be on this side of the school now. Regardless, I follow her around the corner of the hallway, caught in a stream of her strawberry perfume.</p><p>“What’s up?”</p><p>“Stan, I um...” she takes a slight pause. “I think that I need time to focus on myself right now. Maybe you should take some, too. I’m sorry to do this right now, but I couldn’t take it any longer,” she breaks the news confidently.</p><p>The words are like festering wounds in my ears, burning with each sentence. “Really? Whoa, whoa, wait...what do you mean by you ‘couldn’t take it any longer’?” Is she serious right now? It’s like every fucking time things get slightly rocky she’s quick to break up with me.</p><p>She starts rubbing her fingertips to her jawline, looking frustrated. “How could you not know?” she bursts like a balloon with too much air, eyes darting from the floor to pierce mine. “I’ve talked about this to you countless times! I should’ve known you weren’t even listening to me! Do you know how that makes someone feel? It makes them feel like they want to break up with you! It’s like our relationship revolves—revolved—around your ‘super best friend’,” she mocks. The bell that signifies the start of last period rings through the halls. I didn’t even notice everyone gone. The halls are a ghost town. Wendy shouting at me can probably be heard from every side of the school right now. She starts walking away with shiny eyes, “You aren’t even fucking listening to me now!”</p><p>“Is that really what this is about? And I am listening!” She doesn’t even turn around to face me. “Come here! You’re the one not listening!” I call after her, desperate for a chance to talk. I stare, slapping my arms to my sides, waiting for her to turn back and change her mind, or at least finish our talk. I know that wasn’t the right thing to say, and I know it for sure when she just shakes her head and doesn’t care to even glance back.</p><p>Soon enough I realize how I’ve been standing in the hallway spaced out for at least a minute, and pick up my backpack from where I dropped it on the ugly patterned tile next to me. Class already started, and I’m definitely not walking in there in the middle of a presentation with the possibility of breaking down in front of everyone. So, I trod over to the boys bathroom. It reeks of shit, but nobody’s in there, so I take the stall farthest from the door and sit on the toilet seat. The walls are littered with scratched messages and drawings. With my hoodie over my nose, I unzip my bag and scour the bottom for my phone. Bent and crumpled papers spill out of the sides to the floor, along with halves of broken pencils and old gum wrappers. Rather than grabbing my phone, my hand finds a cold metal flask, still relatively full. I almost forgot I put that in there, but it was a convenient surprise.</p><p>I unscrew it and chuck the cap in my backpack. The burn running down my throat compensates for everything in the  moment and I down all of it. I actually think it tastes like shit. It must’ve been some old whiskey that I put in here when I was drunk, and when I didn’t care what it tasted like. And that means it was probably pretty strong because that’s the only reason I would drink something as nasty as that. Most of the time it takes <em>a</em> <em>lot</em> of regular beer to actually get me drunk.</p><p>Tears pluck at my eyelids, but I don’t make a sound. I don’t understand what she means about me not listening to her. If it’s what I think it is, and she’s upset about me ‘focusing on Kyle more than her’, because I hung out with him over her when he needed me a few times, then that’s just stupid. <br/>I sit like that for a while, my mind foggy. Only a couple people come in and out during the 20 minutes or so that I sit there, including the guy (apparently) with the hazmat suit. He doesn’t undress completely to go to the bathroom. Is there a fly zipper on it? I lightly chuckle at the thought of it, making the guy audibly jump with a shrieky grunt. Tweek. The material rubs together loudly as he speed walks out of the bathroom. I’m not surprised he’s the one wearing it. He’s always been paranoid about stuff like this. Knowing that Tweek is the one in the hazmat suit makes me feel even more confident in thinking the spreading virus isn’t something to freak out over.</p><p>The buzz of my phone snaps me back into reality. I’m able to grasp it in the bottom of my bag.</p><p>Princess Kenny: I’m supposed to meet u by the back entrance right? wya</p><p>It took me a second to realize school just ended. And I forgot that I was supposed to give Kenny his game back. I felt so special when he let me borrow it because he can’t afford much of the finer things, and he trusted me with it.</p><p>Me: sorry Kenny dongg th move</p><p>I make my way through the halls, passing by a couple teachers, but no students. I could’ve sworn I wasn’t in the bathroom for an hour. I try to speed up when my phone dings again. Turning the corner I ram into something. Someone? Before I even know it I’m sprawled out on the floor looking up at my blonde friend, who I finally register is in fact Kenny.</p><p>“Shit! What are you doing Stan? I was waiting outside for you for 10 minutes!”</p><p>“I’m sorry ken,” I apologize and start chuckling.</p><p>He reaches for my hand and pulls me up off the floor. When I stumble he questions, “Are you seriously tipsy right now? You can’t get suspended before I do this year.” He sighs, “Come on, I’ll walk you home,” he says, a hint of disappointment in his voice. After I exchange his video game for a half empty water bottle, he drapes my left arm around his shoulder to help me stay balanced.</p><p>“Kenny, my hero. Saving the day and taking me home. What a gentleman,” I fond appreciatively.</p><p>He grins and sighs, but in a jokingly high and mighty manner, saying, “Yep, just for you princess.” I just laugh. And keep laughing. I start heaving so uncontrollably that my chest hurts and I collapse to my knees on the sidewalk and roll over in the snow. It’s freezing but I think it’s so funny and I can’t stop. Wait—what was funny? Shit, I don’t even remember. Whatever it was it’s still funny because I don’t stop. Kenny hovers over me, barely able to contain himself, probably from looking at me causing a scene. “You’re insane,” he laughs out, keeling over and dropping to the ground with me.</p><p>After what seems like a long time of back and forth laughing at ourselves and each other, then thinking we’re done and starting again, we finally get tired and lay down, feeling heavy. Kenny props himself up with his arm. Looking overtop the snow, he inquires, “Is there a reason you were drinking today?” It seems silent for a couple seconds while I break eye contact. He just waits for me to answer.</p><p>“Oh, uh, Wendy broke up with me.”</p><p>“In the middle of the school day? Again?” His voice shifts into a softer tone.</p><p>“Yeah. To be fair, it hasn’t been good for a little while. It was bound to happen,” I concluded. “She must’ve been angry because she started out talking reasonably and all and then blew up in my face out of nowhere, dude.”</p><p>“Did she say why?”</p><p>“It was stupid,” I scoff. “She said something about me not listening to her and brought up Kyle.”</p><p>“Oh.” His voice softens, but seemingly in understanding for Wendy.</p><p>“What?” I ask, more referring to his sudden change than anything.</p><p>He seems to get what I meant and responds, “I mean, I can see where she’s coming from. Don’t get me wrong, but I always thought you and Kyle did have a thing.”</p><p>I stare at him wide-eyed in shock, “What! Dude, that’s gay! Why would you think that?”</p><p>Holding in a laugh, he says, “Stan, it’s so obvious. You know I don’t care if you’re gay, right? You can tell me.”</p><p>“Kenny! I just said I don’t have a thing with him! And what the hell is so obvious?” I prod, hand smacking the crystal surface in frustration.</p><p>He lets out a small chuckle. “Nothing.”</p><p>I just grunt and roll my eyes. He’s not the first person I’ve heard that from. I just learned to ignore it, especially when it came from Cartman. Kenny’s laughed at Cartman’s jokes before but I didn’t think he was actually suspicious of anything. Even when we were younger, my dad questioned it. I remember him saying I shouldn’t hang out with him all the time because “people would think we were ‘you know’”. I didn’t understand what he was referring to at the time. Looking back, I can’t believe he said that to me when I was only in 3rd grade, and he’s only gotten worse over time. Where did this even come from?<br/>To be fair, I have thought about it, but only because everyone around me brought it up. It’s like a what-if situation, but Kyle’s my best friend. I picture us as preschoolers, when I first met him. We were both tiny, and I remember being so infatuated with his curly hair. It’s not often that he goes out without a hat either. I wish he wasn’t so insecure about his hair. We’ve been best friends for so long...I never thought anyone would see it any other way.</p><p><br/>More hours pass by uneventfully and I can’t help but stay caught up in what Kenny said to me earlier. The fact that Wendy broke up with me is deep in my brain, and barely a concern at this point. Before, because it happened multiple times, I’ve spent hours, once a few days, being upset over her. With each time it’s been less of a big deal, I guess. I still get sad, but I’ve gotten over it faster each time. Today, when it happened, I mostly was rejected and unwanted. It’s a Friday evening and I’m lying in my bed. Ideas of frustration and confusion do a tango in my head. Rather than going on some chaotic adventure, my eyes are tracing the grooves of the paint on my ceiling. The alcohol I drank didn’t take a toll on me for long and I can remember what he said pretty vividly. Sure, the comments people have made in the past didn’t go straight through my head, but this is different. I felt like those were just jokes or Cartman spreading rumors and being a dick as per usual. But Kenny genuinely thinks there’s something between Kyle and I? He’s been Kyle and I’s friend since we’ve known each other, and our best friend. For him to think that gets to my head. I’m not gay, so I shouldn’t even be worried about it. Obviously I’m not—I mean I dated Wendy and she’s a girl. Kyle’s also been into a bunch of girls and had a girlfriend before.</p><p>I roll onto my side and brace my head with a pillow, still covered by my old Terrance and Phillip pillowcase. As I eye the digital clock on my dust coated night stand, the picture frame next to it grabs my attention. I purse my lips and blow the light layer of grey particles off of the glass slip cover. This picture holds so many memories. A younger Kyle and Stan stand together, arms wrapped around the other in front of a luxurious pool. A few other celebrities, including Jay Cutler, can be seen vaguely on the other side. <br/>The story around that picture is wild. I can’t believe I let the producer guy get to my head and break Kyle and I up. Well, we weren’t really a band, but I still feel terrible about leaving him for an opportunity that I didn’t even really want. It didn’t take me long to realize that I only wanted to play guitar hero and break a million points if it was with him. I’m surprised I didn’t lose my shit playing with Jarvis earlier. When Kyle said he didn’t realize it was just about the points, that hit me hard. Thankfully I ended up getting over my desire of fame and Kyle and I made up. I felt like such a shitty friend, as I should’ve. My best stories have always been with him, and I’m glad guitar hero stayed our thing. Despite the creators of the game being assholes and putting “YOU ARE F*GS” on the screen, it still makes me nostalgic to think of playing it, and in a good way.</p><p>Oh my god. Maybe that’s where the speculation came from.</p><p>I adjust the stand on the frame and gently place it back on the nightstand in its rightful place next to my lamp. <br/>I wade through the random junk on my floor and pull out a navy hoodie from my hamper. It doesn’t stink, so I throw it on and make my way downstairs. I really need to clear my head. My flask is empty, and I can’t grab anything from the kitchen with my mom home. The next best thing is to take a walk.</p><p>“Hi, Stanley,” my mom calls from the kitchen.</p><p>“Hi, Mom. I’m heading out to hang out with Kyle,” I lied on the spot, twisting the knob on the front door.</p><p>“Sounds good. If you boys get hungry, the chicken should be ready in a couple hours.”</p><p>“Okay, thanks. Bye,” I shout out, closing the door behind me before she can answer. The chilled air flows into my nose and brings a little life to me. I’ve always loved being outdoors. Just walking down the sidewalk on these relatively quiet streets makes me feel calmer. I try to play the license plate game with myself as I make my way further into town, but there’s only a few cars around, all belonging to familiar faces. There’s a couple kids at the basketball court, though.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>I spot Kyle’s bright green ushanka and swerve in the direction I came almost as fast as I spotted him. Under any other circumstance I’d want to see him, but right now my mind is under so much pressure and now is not the time. But, of course, it’s too late.</p><p>“Stan! Dude!” No matter how bad I want to keep walking and pretend I didn’t hear him, at the sound of his voice I turn around.</p><p>“Oh! Hey Kyle!” I pretend to sound surprised.</p><p>I’m not surprised to see him wearing a surgical mask over his mouth, though. With squinting eyes brightened by the setting sun, he jogs over to me. He stretches it down over his chin and exhales a frosty fog from his lips. “What’re you doing? Didn’t you get my text earlier?” His voice lowers, “I’ve had to play basketball with just Craig, Clyde, and Cartman, of all people. Craig just brought Clyde here to cheer him up, and I don’t mind them, but they don’t help keep me sane around the fatass.” When I sit in a moment of silence, he scrunches his eyebrows, “Dude, are you okay?”</p><p>His question snaps me out of my thoughts and I realize I was staring at his mouth—or the foggy air coming out of it? What the hell am I doing? “Yeah, I’m good, sorry.”</p><p>I peer behind him and see Craig looking as irritated as ever. He calls out, “Kyle, are we gonna finish this damn game or what?”</p><p>Kyle rolls his eyes and shouts, “Wait a minute!” huffing something under his breath. Turning back to me, says, “Are you sure, dude?”</p><p>“Yeah, all good,” I nestle my hands in my pocket.</p><p>“Okay,” he answers, clearly unconvinced. “Come shoot with us.”</p><p>Part of me wants to stay and the other part wants to go, but I don’t want him to think anything is wrong, so I stay. “Alright.”</p><p>Walking across the street I suddenly become overly aware and self-conscious of every move I make. “Looks like Marsh decided to join us,” Clyde says casually, tossing me the ball, then ruffing his fingers to adjust his floppy hair.</p><p>“Yeah, the Jew wouldn’t let us play and insisted that we wait for you to come while your hippie ass was probably out hugging trees,” Cartman sneers.</p><p>Kyle’s face scrunched up in annoyance as he bit back at him, muffled by the fabric of the mask, “Shut up, fatass. It was literally one minute you impatient fuck.” The contrast between the whistle of the wind and honk of the train in the distance sound the way their constant arguing feels.</p><p>“If we aren’t gonna play I’m out,” Craig says blandly.</p><p>“Whose team am I on?” I ask.</p><p>“You can go with Craig and I,” Kyle offers. “Here.” He raises his hands, asking for me to pass him the ball as he eases backwards towards the end of the court. I throw it to him and watch as his fingers form a firm grip around the ball. He checks the ball to Clyde, then dribbles and crosses the ball over to get around him.</p><p>Playing this game was not my idea of how I wanted to clear my head. In actuality, it feels like it’s overloading it  more and more.</p><p>“Stan!” Kyle calls my name, even though I’m already looking towards him as he bounce passes the ball in my direction. I scramble for the ball at the last second when it knocks into my hand and falls into the grass. <em>Jesus Christ, dude</em>. What am I doing? It’s not like I’m especially bad at basketball, I can easily catch a ball, let alone a bounce pass. I know I need to focus before I seriously embarrass myself.</p><p>“Can Stan be on the other team?” Craig asks, monotone. I notice Kyle shoot him a glare.</p><p>“Are you sure you’re good, Stan? You seem really distracted,” Kyle questions me suspiciously.</p><p>I can feel the heat pouring into my cheeks. “Uh, yeah, I just realized that my mom said dinner would be ready and I gotta go...home.” I awkwardly fish my hands in my pockets before taking them out again to grab the ball I instantly forgot about and pass it back to Kyle.</p><p>Kyle answers, “Okay, see ya later.” I can feel his green eyes on my back as I shuffle out of the park, clearly unconvinced by my bullshit as usual. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know damn well it’s not my athleticism. Today’s just felt off in its entirety. Something like that shouldn’t fluster me that much, yet I was so quick to make excuses to get out of there. Thoughts flood my mind telling me I made things weirder by leaving so fast. I start to wonder if it was even weird at all prior to me leaving suddenly.</p><p>As I speed-walk away, eyes glued any direction but at the park, I distantly hear Cartman say, “Goddamn, the alcohol must be getting to his brain,” and then a thunk! and sounds of something hollow hopping on the asphalt.</p><p>“Ow! Fuck you Kahl! What’s your fucking issue?” his whiny voice cries out.</p><p>“He’s having a bad day. Stop being a whiny little bitch.” I smile discreetly and hold in a laugh. I can’t process my thoughts at the speed they’re coming, and take the long way home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m working on taking my time with writing and not rushing, because the first chapter definitely wasn’t the greatest and I just wanted to get it out.<br/>As I’m not that experienced, please feel free to leave constructive criticism or bully me in the comments idrc:)</p><p>follow my insta @southbroflovski for updates about updates</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Print of the Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The letter, addressing Kyle in blue pen, is dated all the way back to when we were in 2nd grade and is written pretty sloppily. I remember being able to write his name before “Stanley”.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s unlike me to be jittery. Even I don’t realize it until my dad asks me, “Stan, are you on drugs?” in a joking way, before being scolded by my mom for a lack of decency or whatever. Suddenly I’m conscious of the rapid tap of my foot against the floor and it radiates into my head like they’re connected, so I stop. It’s the kind of tapping that you see anxious students doing while taking a test, or that some do when they’ve been sitting for too long, craving a chance to get up and move. I’d already scarfed down the chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and green beans Mom made, so I dismiss myself, and head upstairs.</p><p>It wasn’t long before the storm clouds wavering in my head came back since just minutes ago when my dad interrupted my thoughts at dinner. I have no doubt that Kyle thought I was acting weird earlier. He’s usually good at picking up on how I’m feeling even if I don’t believe I show it. Even though he told Cartman I was ‘having a bad day’, he totally knew it was deeper than that. I don't even completely know what’s wrong with me. Obviously I was a little shocked that Kenny seriously suspected things between us, but what if there is, and I just haven’t acknowledged it this whole time? I knew our relationship with each other was always different and more special, but we’re two guys. We’re super best friends.</p><p>Rummaging through the wooden drawer on my nightstand, my finger slides against the harsh edge of a folded piece of paper. You wouldn’t think paper could sting so bad, but it does, like hell. It burns, and blood seeps out of my fresh wound. I raise my finger to my mouth to press it between my lips, but then think better of it after replaying the scene of Kyle wearing a mask at the basketball court and press it to my jeans. The letter, addressing Kyle in blue pen, is dated all the way back to when we were in 2nd grade and is written pretty sloppily. I remember being able to write his name before my own: “Stanley”. A whole stack of letters is visible underneath it, from Kyle to me, in red—and sometimes purple—pen. I must’ve never given him this letter I wrote. Whenever we couldn’t call or text each other, we’d write letters. It was one of the only ways I could keep sane on family trips between my parents’ emotions that tended to fluctuate all over the place and Shelly’s continuous angry barking before I had an iPod or when there was no service on the weekends that we had to visit Uncle Jimbo and Ned.</p><p>I cautiously put my fingers around the entire stack, having no desire for another paper cut, and sit down with my back against the headboard of my bed. I flip it over and a small smile forms on my face at the chunky second-grade quality letters that cover both sides of the page.</p><p>
  <em>Dear my super best friend Kyle,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s no service so I can’t FaceTime you here. Uncle Jimbo and Ned have been telling me and Shelly hunting stories since my mom and dad dropped us off for the weekend. I don’t know if he knows I don’t like hunting, but if he does he doesn’t care. So far it’s been pretty boring but at least I’m coming home tomorrow afternoon. I know you said to try to have fun and I am trying, but there’s nothing really to do at least right now. We played uno earlier and Shelly won.</em>
</p><p>In my head I can picture myself in Jimbo and Ned’s kitchen at their small, 4-chair, wooden table beside Shelly—who I think had her headgear at the time—Uncle Jimbo, and Ned. That was long before Ned passed away, based on the grade I was in. The day of his funeral, I never saw Uncle Jimbo, or actually anyone I could think of, that looked more broken and distraught.</p><p>
  <em>I hope that we’re like Uncle Jimbo and Ned when we’re older. I don’t mean exactly them, because you know I don’t like hunting. I mean I hope that we stay super best friends forever. Maybe we’ll get to live together in a house when we grow up like they do and hang out all the time. It’s only been a day and I’m already bored without you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I miss you,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>your super best friend Stan.</em>
</p><p>When I was younger I was oblivious to Jimbo and Ned’s relationship. It was naive to think that Kyle and I would spend all of our lives together. I almost wish I was still that naive. A vision of myself and Kyle, older, laughing at each other, in place of Uncle Jimbo and Ned at the kitchen table hovers in my head. Even my younger self knew that I wanted to spend my life with Kyle by my side. My dry lips pop apart into an “o” at the realization that it makes me smile giddily. What am I thinking? Of course I’d wanna stay in contact with Kyle—he’s my best friend. That should make me happy.</p><p>A montage of Kyle and I plays in my mind. Images of 2 young kids running up to us on the porch from the school bus appear. A young boy and girl, close in age, race to see who gets to the house first. I turn my head to look over at montage Kyle, who looks older and more adult-like than I know him to be, and a little taller, too. He apparently now has glasses that perfectly suit his face, and he lovingly smirks at me. Relaxed in my bed, eyes still closed, I feel my face settle in an expression torn between shock and awe.</p><p>He reappears in my head, looking younger than before, possibly in his 20's, beside me in the passenger seat of a topless, Mercedes roadster. I move one hand from the steering wheel to his thigh, taking a short glance away from the road lined with green. He faces me, his well-kept curls blowing gloriously with the high speed of the car, wearing aviators. He has a cheeky grin plastered on his face from laughing that glows as bright as the shine of 1,000 suns. In a way, he does kind of remind me of the sun. He has the kind of laugh where you can’t help but laugh with him.</p><p>The vision dissolves into another. This time, a familiar version of Kyle, on the basketball court, stands in front of me, eyes locked on mine. Cartman, Clyde, and Craig are nowhere in sight. I observe the moon as a dot in the pink and orange gradient sky before looking back at him. I feel his imperceptibly calloused hand grasp the side of my cheek. He leans closer, eyes fluttering shut, and it takes me a second to register my thoughts.</p><p>Jesus Christ, dude! I squirm, creaking the bed, my guts screaming. I bolt up straighter, eyes now definitely wide open. The paper drops back into the pile of letters. My fingertips press into my temples with the tips of my nails imprinting my skin, thumbs hugging my jawline. I can’t keep this up or continue to act weird around him. I should be asking myself why I thought of that in the first place, but it gets even more complicated when I wonder why I want to close my eyes again. Why do I want to close them again, and imagine his hand on my cheek? Why do I want to feel his vanilla balm-glazed lips push softly into mine? Why do I want to run my hand into his enthralling mop of curls and pull him in deeper?</p><p>Cactus prickles poke at my eyes, prompting me to cry. I pull my hand away from my face, grabbing and squeezing the stack of letters that form wrinkles in protest. My mouth contorts into a frown and I slam the letters onto the bedside table, some gliding to the floor. A desperate wail escapes from my mouth and my arms twitch as I curl over on the mattress. I hiccup as I try to contain my crying. Kyle and I have always been each other’s other halves and if I can’t stop this, I’m terrified it’s going to ruin our relationship. If I lost him, I don’t know what I would do. When I think back, he’s always been my number one priority, even before my fucking girlfriend. It was always his calls I’d answer. It was always him that I’d tend to more. <br/>My teeth clench. This is what Wendy meant. It’s like she knew how much he meant to me, not that she didn’t mean anything to me, because she did and still does. Judging by our past conversations, she likely knew the extent of it, too, before I even allowed myself to try to understand it. It’s like I’ve loved him my whole life, but never let myself consider that. I don’t even want to consider it now, but my head is overloaded with daunting scenes of Kyle being grossed out or hating me if he found out.</p><p>I can envision him and I standing and facing each other on my vaguely lit porch from a view across the street. Kyle’s lightly freckled nose scrunches, and he asks the Stan on the porch, “Are you being serious?”<br/>Stan shoves his hands in his coat pockets and breaks eye contact quickly, shaking out, “Yeah, uh, I am.”<br/>Kyle hesitates before saying, “I mean, we’re both guys. That’s kinda gay. I never wanted to be anything more than friends, that’d be pretty gross.” His expression changes to one of panic. “Oh god. You didn’t think I liked you, did you?”</p><p>I snap out of it and promptly crash my hands into the headboard, my head following in repetitive slams. When I can’t suppress the noise of my screaming cries, I stuff my face into my tear-and-snot-stained pillow, anxious to squeeze it till it pops.</p><p>“Stan, oh come’re honey,” my mom’s voice coos, in a saddening tone, from the doorway. I’m grateful that she shuts the door because an elongated scream rips  itself out of my mouth, winning against my resistance. She gently nudges my legs over to sit beside me on the bed. I let her pull me into a cradle, my jaw twitching with each sob. “Shhhhh, it’s okay baby. It’s okay,” she repeats softly. Rather than straining to contain my stressful bawling, I slowly start to let it come out. Her hand runs through my hair, very gradually calming me down. I know my Mom won’t leave my side unless I need her to, and I try to squash the disgustingly vivid image of Kyle resenting me. Footsteps pinch the floor, distinctly Shelly’s, and halt for a few seconds in front of my door before continuing through the hallway to her room. By now my throat feels coated with rings of barbed wire and the skin under my eyes raw. <br/>After another half an hour of relentless crying and the inability to picture the scene ending up any different, my mom remaining by my side to comfort me, my sobs slow down enough that she begins to talk to me.</p><p>“Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?”</p><p>I pull my legs in closer to my chest, sniffling up more runaway snot, without a response.</p><p>“You can tell me, if you want. It’s okay,” she adds. My eyes drift over to the picture of Kyle and I side-hugging on the nightstand, and she seems to take notice. “Is something wrong with you and Kyle, honey?”</p><p>My body tenses as I hear her say his name and my knuckles turn white as I squeeze her sweater. Pushing down another cry, I shake my head no. Technically, it’s just something wrong with me. It isn’t long before another series of sobs hurls out of me. This time, however, they sound more tired, scratchy, and strained.</p><p>She grazes her palm back and forth across my arm. It feels like awhile before she says anything again, and I don’t think she will, until she offers slowly, “I love you no matter what. We all do. Your father, your sister, Grandpa Marvin—we all will love you no matter who you love. You’ll always be the same goofy, lovable, little boy to me. Nothing can change that.” She slides out from under me, carefully bringing my head down to the pillow. She plants a light kiss to my forehead before exiting quietly. How she correctly assumed why I was so upset, I don’t know. But I’m grateful that I didn’t have to explain myself. My mom somehow always understands what I need in these types of situations. This time was no different.</p><p>I’m still hiccuping and sniffling for what seems like forever, but I think I’m done crying. A worn and tired feeling weighs me down, and I scrunch up under the covers, just needing to breathe. The hum of the garage door opening helps to settle something inside me better than the silence of my room could, and I hear a car pull out into the driveway. However, it’s only another minute before a vibration echoes to my right. Out of minimal curiosity, I reach for my buzzing phone, wiping my cloudy eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Kyley-B</em>
  <br/>
  <em>mobile</em>
</p><p>I’ve never dropped my phone so fast. This is the last thing I need right now. My heart is pounding against the wall of my chest, begging to jump out. If I don’t answer, though, he wouldn’t believe a lousy excuse like “I was asleep” because he knows damn well that I’m not asleep or napping at the awkward hour of 8:30pm, especially considering how I acted earlier. Jolting up, I tear the sheets off of me and sprint to the bathroom to blow my nose. Each step is a bang to the side of my head. With a cry like that, a headache is practically inevitable. I don’t waste any attention on the mess of toothpaste splattered on the counter that my mom keeps nagging me about. In a race against the length of the vibration of my phone, I sprint back in, slamming the door behind me. I’m not surprised when my dad scolds from downstairs, “Stan! How many times do I gotta tell you about slamming the goddamn door!” Knowing he won’t get his lazy ass off the couch, I ignore him and scurry across the floor. Usually Kyle gets impatient with waiting for someone to pick up, but I’m sort of glad he wasn’t this time. As much as I want to avoid him, I can’t. If pretending to want to be nothing more than his best friend is what I have to do forever, no matter how much it’s gonna hurt, that’s what I’ll do. My thumb vibrates in tempo with the phone as I reluctantly slide the answer button to the right.</p><p>My greeting is replaced by a silent breath of air. He’s the first to actually speak. “Hey, Stan.”</p><p>“Hey Kyle,” I expel, sounding congested.</p><p>Concerned, he gets right to the point. “You seemed really off today. At the basketball court, I mean. What’s going on dude?”</p><p>I press my fingers into the temple that’s uncovered by my phone screen. How am I supposed to answer that? Tell him Kenny made me get in my head and I spent the last hour or so bawling my eyes out because I finally began confronting the love I have for him? Hell no. Instead, I lie on the spot, “I’m just stressed out...I guess. Because of football.”</p><p>“We always tell each other everything. Why is now any different?” He sounds kind of hurt at my obvious lie.</p><p>“I did tell you.”</p><p>“Stan,” he utters, sounding unimpressed. “I’m not stupid, football season is over.”</p><p>Shit. If it were any other situation, I’d be laughing at my stupidity. I choke on god knows what, quick to pull the speaker away from my face.</p><p>He continues, “Do you want to talk about it in person? I can come over.” A pang of emotion hits me like a tsunami. I see Kyle and I in front of my house again, and breathe a sob. He can’t come over. It’d be impossible for me to pull myself together. The tsunami starts to pull me underwater. This can’t happen now. It can’t. It can’t. It can’t.</p><p>He pauses for a moment, but before I can even push an understandable word out, he says, “Okay, I’ll be over in a few minutes,” with a beep signaling the end of the call. My scream tears through the air, but he’s already hung up and is undoubtedly halfway out the door. My fists clutch as much carpet as they can manage and I let my head fall to the floor.</p><p>“Why,” I mutter to myself. “God, why would you give me my soulmate but not let him,” I choke on a sob, continuing, “love me back?” Surprisingly, it turns out that I did have more tears to cry.</p><p>I hear a knock on the door a short moment later, and make an attempt to stay silent so I could drop in on any conversation.</p><p>“Hey, Kyle. Stan’s in his room.”</p><p>“Okay, thank you, Mr. Marsh.” Even though Kyle’s been around my whole life he still calls my dad Mr. Marsh. It’s formal, but I guess I do it to his parents, too, now that I think about it.</p><p>The semi-quiet in my room doesn’t last long when the greeting ends, and I no longer have enough of a will to overpower my emotions. The pats of his feet on the stairs are quiet, but are like a smack to my ears with every hit.</p><p>He softly knocks on the door and says my name to let me know he’s here. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this anxious to see him. He doesn’t expect a response and nudges open the door, quietly shutting it behind him. “Oh god, Stan,” he says lightly, pulling my chest up from the floor and into a firm but loving hug. Quivering, I return the hug, pressing my face into his shoulder, and he holds me there, grazing my back. Him holding me here makes it that much harder to neglect the problem at hand. I pull away despite wanting to stay in his warmth for eternity and position myself with my back against the side of my bed, slouching on the floor and burying my embarrassed face in my palms.</p><p>Kyle sits beside me, one leg crossed under the other that’s bent to his chest. He pauses a second before he brings his hand to my knee and asks, “Could I use your guitar?” I’m confused, but manage to whimper out a sound that signifies “No, I don’t care” through my cries. He understands, nods, and walks towards the corner where my cheap Walmart guitar sits on its base. “I want to show you something,” he explains, picking it up by the neck carefully. He comes back over and sits criss-cross applesauce beside me, the guitar in his lap. Clearing his throat, he begins to pluck familiar sounding notes. He repeats the short riff several times and besides him pulling the strings a little too hard, it sounds perfect. Then, he starts to sing.</p><p>Sweet creature<br/>Had another talk about where it’s going wrong<br/>But we’re still young<br/>Don’t know where we’re going but we know where we belong</p><p>I don’t think I’ve ever heard Kyle sing as sweetly as he is now—or genuinely try to sing, for that matter. I pick my head up and blink away the tears nesting in my eyes. My sobs quickly slow to small hiccups as I strive to make his voice the only sound in the room. He continues to stare down at his fingers, but I can’t help but stare at him in awe while he croons out the lyrics.</p><p>I know we started<br/>Two hearts in one home<br/>It gets hard when we argue<br/>We’re both stubborn, I know</p><p>Kyle never really was good with rhythm or most things dealing with music, or so I thought. He couldn’t keep up with an 8-count of choreography, but I suppose he proved that music itself is a different story. Listening to him is like a medication that soothes my head. I feel starstruck with my eyes locked on him through the whole song.</p><p>Sweet creature, sweet creature<br/>Wherever I go, you’ll bring me home<br/>Sweet creature, sweet creature<br/>When I run out of rope, you’ll bring me home<br/>You’ll bring me home</p><p>He doesn’t break his gaze at his hand, even after he plays the lingering riff at the close of the song.</p><p>“Kyle,” I start, searching for words. “Since when could you sing? And when did you learn to play guitar?”</p><p>He lets out a slight chuckle and finally looks me in the eyes. “I can’t sing. And that’s the only song I can play. It took so long to learn, too.”</p><p>Putting my hand on his shoulder, I counter, “Well that sounded pretty fucking good to me.”</p><p>“If you say so,” he answers, jokingly nonchalant.</p><p>“Why did you want to learn it?” I wonder aloud.</p><p>“Oh…for a moment like this, I guess.” His expression tells me he just threw the “I guess” on the end of it and that that reason was the firm purpose.</p><p>A grin works its way through the corners of my mouth, and he shifts his body to face me, asking, “Remember that time I told you I was gonna go sing to that homeschooled girl, Rebecca, in elementary school?”</p><p>“Oh my god, yeah, I remember that. I don’t think you told me how it went.”</p><p>“Well, she must’ve thought I was so good cause she showered me with money from her window like I was a stripper,” he laughs.</p><p>I can’t help but crack up uncontrollably. Not only is that hilarious, but his laugh genuinely is contagious. I push his shoulder, saying—or more so shouting, “No way, dude! How did I never hear about that?!” I slump into my bed frame, aching from giggling so much.</p><p>“I don’t know! I was embarrassed at the time! That whole fucking thing was embarrassing,” he chuckled lightheartedly.</p><p>“Aww, poor Kyle,” I exaggerate with a sarcastic frown, still laughing, and sitting up with crossed legs to face him.</p><p>“Shut up,” he cackles, nudging me in the chest. My heart skips a beat, and my laugh subsides, leaving a smirky smile plastered on my face. His eyes drop to it before redirecting to the wall and back to my eyes. I see his shoulders tense up and his teeth graze his bottom lip. The bunchy orange curls on his head lean side to side as he cracks his neck on both sides. He takes a pause before changing the subject. “Okay. I know I came here to show you how good I was at singing, but we need to talk about the other thing.” Our gazes connect, and he doesn’t break it. It’s not an intimidating look—it’s soft and reassuring at the very least—but my heart starts beating at lightning speed. “Stan, we’ve always told each other everything. Is there a reason you can’t tell me about what’s going on? You know I love you.”</p><p>
  <em>I love you.</em>
</p><p>No, you don’t. Anguish pierces my heart. Those words don’t mean what I want them to. The muscles all over my body tense and I shoot my eyes to the carpet.</p><p>“Come on dude, don’t—“ I abruptly stop, biting my bottom lip to create a gate that doesn’t let any cries out.</p><p>A look of blended concern and confusion flashes onto his face. He reaches for my knee and inquires, “Wait, what did I say?”</p><p>My first reaction is to push his hand away, and that breaks the gate. Tears pour all the way down my neck and I blubber out assertively, “Don’t say that.”</p><p>“Say what?”</p><p>He barely gets out the words before I fire back, “That you love me!”</p><p>My eyebrows tense and push together in frustration as he replies, clearly working hard to contain his frustration, “What do you mean? We’ve said that a bunch of times before. What did I do?”</p><p>“Just don’t fucking say it,” I spit harshly. He inhales at my harsh words. “You can’t say what you don’t mean,” I whine in a hoarse voice under my breath, unintelligibly.</p><p>“I—“</p><p>“Go. Go, go, go.” I repeat with increasing volume.</p><p>“Stan—“ he pleads.</p><p>“Go. Get out,” I command with regret, yet in some way out of control, pointing to the door. “For the love of God!”</p><p>He hesitates. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>He opens his mouth to object one last time, but decides against it. It’s only as he stands in place, trembling, that I look up to see the tears that illuminate the green in his eyes starting to break free from hold. He brings up one hand to his eyes as he walks out. The door closes and I crumble again.</p><p>I know I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I know I shouldn't have pushed him away or yelled at him because he only wanted to help me. But, some part of me is still mad at him. I don’t understand what it is. Maybe I’m mad at him for saying what I want to hear, but not how I want it. Or maybe I’m just mad at him for not loving me back.</p><p>All I know is I’m more angry with myself now than anything.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(Edited 7/30/20: I got a bit of a block on this story for a bit but am finally coming back to it. Since it’s the first fanfic I’ve ever written, I didn’t really like the way I started it out looking back on it. It’s a bit cringey but I left the parts in anyways and made some small edits here and there in the chapters, but the main storyline is still the same.)</p><p>yes I did throw in Harry styles stfu</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Lucky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I used to think you were just really lucky for finding that good of a friend who was like your other half, but then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn’t just that. I can’t be sure, I guess, but I bet if you were to ask anyone in town, they’d say he loved you back.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I wearily open my crusted over eyelids. The bright light flooding through the blinds berates me to close them again and just fall back asleep, but I squint against it. Dislodging my hands from under the edge of the covers to wipe at my eyes, I take a glance at the clock on my bedside table. It reads 10:30am, which is pretty average on a weekend. Usually I’d have something going on and more than likely stay up till what Cartman calls “the ungodly hours of the morning”, waking up between now and 11 something. The times that I have been at sleepovers with Cartman there, he’s one of the first people out. Ironically, when all of us had sleepovers it would be rare if he didn’t try to make some kind of diabolical plan to mess with whoever fell asleep first, that person being him. Though, if Kyle’s been busy all day, he tires out quickly, leaving me, and occasionally Kenny, to defend him from Cartman’s dumbfuckery. We don’t all actually have sleepovers much anymore. More specifically, Cartman isn’t a part of them if they happen. </p>
<p>I tense my muscles and arch my back, grunting as I stretch. The constant dimming and brightening of sunlight coming through my windows puts me in a trance. One second my room is engulfed in sunshine, and then another it’s drowned out by an odd darkness. With my hands folded over my seldom shirt-covered chest, my gaze soon becomes out of focus as I think about yesterday. Honestly, my memory of last night in the aftermath of Kyle leaving is distant—if that. All I recall from then last night is a longing feeling: wanting so bad to get out and go anywhere but here, except being unable to bring myself to move. It’s likely I cried myself to sleep, judging from my waking state. </p>
<p>I envision Kyle standing across from me, in the same spot as last night with a familiar angrily confused expression painted across his face. I’m obscurely yelling something at him. Before I know it, this Kyle is swiftly changed into a loose, sheer white tee paired with red and brown plaid boxers—my boxers? He scoffs, simultaneously rolling his eyes, before aggressively taking steps towards me. My heart is beating in some indescribable way. He thrusts his palms into my shoulders, shoving me into the wall. There’s a thin line of space between our bodies, and I can almost feel the imaginary warm air escaping his flared nostrils on my chin. I snake my hand up from my side through his forearms and slowly pull it down his jawline. He stares, slyly holding my gaze. I move my hand through his curls, wanting nothing more than to genuinely feel their bounciness in my fist. This bolder Stan crashes into Kyle. They push and pull each other with a reciprocated love only possible in my imagination. This time, I don’t stop my thoughts from rolling. This Kyle really wants me, all of me. </p>
<p>Back when I used to read more often, which is surprising in itself, I would unintentionally self-insert me and Kyle into almost any story I’d come across, but especially romantic ones. I thought it was just because of similarities I saw in them to us, but it didn’t take me too long to discover that I was actually searching for those similarities. It started out accidental. Gradually, though, it became less and less accidental. I started enjoying picturing Kyle and I out hiking through the mountains side by side, one of us caring for the other when he got sick at parties, or whatever it may have been. I labeled it as nothing then and pushed it away. All the ignored sexuality questionnaires wiped from my search history that never resulted in the answer I convinced myself was right, the stories, and the odd scenarios I craved would happen between us should’ve been when I knew. I should’ve dealt with it from the start. Now, pretending is coming back to bite me in the ass. </p>
<p>Newfound mellowness dissolves this Stan and Kyle against my wishes, bringing my ceiling back into focus.</p>
<p>With a groan, I roll over to face my nightstand and settle on one elbow to reach for my phone. It’s a surprise that it has any charge left, seeing as I didn’t bother to plug it in overnight. My lock screen is peculiarly overwhelmed with stacked notifications. I notice a few weather alerts, but more particularly several messages in the group chat with Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, and I. I don’t waste time opening the messages, which have a timestamp from sometime last night, and scroll up. </p>
<p>Princess Kenny: yo did u guys see the school email</p>
<p>KFCartman: Since when did poor people get emails? </p>
<p>Princess Kenny: f off that doesnt even make sense</p>
<p>Princess Kenny: im serious </p>
<p>Princess Kenny: i cant believe were getting a free break from this shit</p>
<p>KFCartman: I’m just happy I’ll be free from the hippie the jew and your poor ass for a week</p>
<p>Princess Kenny: i dont think weve ever gotten off for something like this</p>
<p>KFCartman: Hmmm you’re right maybe they’re hiding something</p>
<p>Kenny’s right. South Park schools barely ever close. Occasionally there will be some kind of anticipation where everyone freaks out about a concept like global warming, and there will be an exception. Otherwise, it’s running like normal. Even though the adults that are in charge, and the adults in general, can be absurd, I already heard that schools elsewhere are closing, and that brings me an essence of worry.</p>
<p>I skip down through the rest of their blabber, and don’t realize that I was yearning to see a response from Kyle until a wave of disappointment washes over me. The Broflovski’s are all early risers and get up around 8am almost every day—except Ike who I’ve seen sleep anywhere between not at all and until 3pm at times. I highly doubt he didn’t see it. </p>
<p>The one thing motivating me to get out of bed is that I really have to pee. I finally rise out of bed and head down the hall to the bathroom. My current plans were to think over everything in my room—meaning do absolutely nothing—but my appetite hit me really hard. </p>
<p>As I’m trodding down the steps, yearning for a simple bowl of cereal, I notice Shelly at the kitchen table, half-focused on her phone.</p>
<p>“Hey, turd,” she greets in a monotone voice. I simply make an effortless humming noise in reply, not necessarily fond of talking right now. </p>
<p>I grab my go-to cereal from the cabinet and pour it into a ceramic bowl—before the milk, to be exact. It’s a crime to pour the milk first. The gallon jug of 1% milk has a crust settled over the edge, so I twist and untwist the cap over and over before pouring. I didn’t notice it much before until I saw Kyle doing it and asked him what in the hell he was doing. I remember him saying, “I’m making the milk crust fall off. I don’t want that nasty shit in my cereal, ew.” He looked disgusted in the most endearing way. I picked that habit up from him, but I don’t mind.</p>
<p>I drag my feet across the ground over to the table before pulling out a chair across from Shelly. She sets her phone face down, and begins with a mouth full of crispy Eggo waffles, “What’s up with you?” She’s surprisingly gotten a lot more tolerable as we both got older. </p>
<p>I offer a simple shrug in return when I involuntarily visualize the events in my head and feel my throat tightening.</p>
<p>“I saw Kyle leave and could hear you from my room, but I thought I’d wait to ask.”</p>
<p>Her words quickly become background noise to the thoughts replaying in my head, and I can’t help but let out the shaky cry I’ve been holding in and bury my face in my hands with embarrassment. </p>
<p>“It’s okay, you’re fine, let it out,” she says awkwardly. Shelly was never the best at comforting people and usually made it uncomfortable. </p>
<p>I attempt to speak, saying, “We, uh, got in a fight.”</p>
<p>“Oh. About what?”</p>
<p>“I don’t really know.” It’s half honest, at least. </p>
<p>“Well just tell me what happened then.”</p>
<p>I sigh. A lot is rushing through my mind. Explaining would mean that she would know I like a guy. I know she wouldn’t stop bugging me if I didn’t tell her though, and would probably get angry again. I pause and close my eyes.</p>
<p>“I guess I’ll start from the very beginning.” </p>
<p>So I do. I tell her everything, from Wendy breaking up with me to walking with Kenny, accepting that I’m in love with Kyle—and that I have been for awhile, which was extremely difficult to admit when it came to that point—and finally, him going home and leaving my heart wrenched. Though, looking back, it’s mostly my own fault. If I just stopped thinking about him in ways that bring me shame, maybe everything would be fine. </p>
<p>After silently but intently listening, Shelly stares at the table in thought before placing her arms folded atop it. </p>
<p>“You know I always wondered if you loved Kyle like that,” she starts. “I used to think you were just really lucky for finding that good of a friend who was like your other half, but then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn’t just that. I can’t be sure, I guess, but I bet if you were to ask anyone in town, they’d say he loved you back.” </p>
<p>It’s nothing far from what I’ve heard before, but it sounds different right now. Maybe it’s because she knows the story, or maybe it’s because my heart is holding out hope for more than an unrequited love, or at least to not lose my best friend. I don’t believe her, but this time I want to. I really want to. </p>
<p>“I know that you probably don’t believe me,” she begins again. It’s as if she read my mind. “But I’m your big sister and that means I’m older and therefore smarter than you. He looked hurt when he left. And hey, I wasn’t even being nosy, but he walked past my room and I could feel the angst from there,” she explains with a sound of disgust. “I suggest you talk to him, which is pretty much a given, but seriously, you need to. About anything, really.” </p>
<p>She pauses, waiting for me to say anything in response, so I throw in a complimentary “I know” so she can continue. </p>
<p>“About Wendy,” she speaks, making me look up with confusion, “you need to talk to her, too.”</p>
<p>My unresponsive face urges her on. “I’m obviously not saying to get back together with her. It wouldn’t be good for either of you. But it seems like it didn’t end on good terms, so I think you owe her an apology,” she informed wisely. </p>
<p>I didn’t really have anything against Wendy. Sure I was really upset with her for the lack of explanation, but she was right. And I need to stop telling myself she isn’t. </p>
<p>“I guess you’re right,” I sighed. “Hey, uh, thanks, Shelly.” I offer as she stands up from her seat to take her empty plate to the kitchen. </p>
<p>“You’re welcome, turd,” she returns with a light smile before jogging upstairs, leaving me alone in an empty downstairs. You know what? Maybe I did kind of miss her when she was gone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I finally got out of my block with this story. Sorry for the long wait and a shorter chapter after so long, but I will be continuing it:)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. No More Bread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Once I talk to Wendy, I’m one step closer to having to confront things with Kyle, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain my outburst without completely shattering our friendship. I don’t want to be that Stan that stood in under my porch light and got rejected.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Roaming the chaotic aisles of Walmart was not my ideal way of spending the dreary afternoon. After several days of not seeing anyone or leaving the house, my mom thought it’d be necessary for me to do something besides sit in my room, since she thought I was being “too mopey”. She left a note taped to the fridge this morning before leaving for work requesting that I buy the groceries, and to be careful there—especially since Kenny was just recently symptomatic with the effects of Corona—along with a list of everything I had to buy. If I realized being able to drive meant I had to start doing chores like this, I probably would’ve waited to get my license. It took a lot for me to actually get in the car and drive away knowing the store would be packed. Here I am, however. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’ve been deliberating various ways to talk to Wendy ever since I told Shelly everything. It’s surprisingly difficult to do that when I can’t keep Kyle off my mind—specifically his confused, distraught visage when I ordered him to leave. The more I think about it, the more our problems from that night seem like my fault. Honestly, I’m embarrassed for lashing out at him like that. I can’t get the picture of him tearing up out of my head, and knowing that I caused him that pain makes me feel like a horribly shitty person. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every single song I’ve listened to, thing I’ve done, and moment of silence I’ve dwelled in over the lame past couple of days has been about him. My thoughts were so loudly overwhelming that I broke my stubbornness and called him. I didn’t have anything planned to say, but I just needed to apologize at the very least. He didn’t pick up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I scan over the relatively lengthy checklist before directing myself to the aisle where the bread loaves sit. I’ve never been a fan of grocery shopping, or more specifically having to follow my parents around like a dog while my dad wandered off to fawn over beer and my mom thoroughly examined cartons of eggs for over an hour. Alone it wasn’t as dreadful, but with the countless numbers of people rushing around like it was the apocalypse, it might as well be worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t until I rolled the cart halfway down the baked goods lane that I noticed the shelves were essentially wiped clean. A few boxes of Twinkies and other processed cakes lay on the tile floor, stranded. With a sigh, I began to stroll off until I spotted one loaf of bread pushed towards the back of the shelf. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I left my cart stranded to go grab it, but stop in my tracks when I hear an unfamiliar voice. “Hey! Stop! Don’t touch that young man!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I look up to see an angry elderly woman hobbling over with a face mask hugging her just her chin, blue basket in hand. “Why?” I ask with confusion written all over my face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t touch it yet, right?” She asks, squinting at me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, not yet, no,” I reply gingerly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” she sneers as she pulls her face mask back up before nearly diving for the loaf of Italian bread, dashing away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a minute for me to register the bizarre interaction. I swap my dumbfounded stare for a light smile and chuckle to myself. Everyone’s acting so odd and it’s only getting weirder by the day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m about to return to my cart and steer it to wherever the next item on the list might be when I see someone I can recognize with ease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ike?” I wonder aloud, sweeping over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He runs a hand accessorized with a dangling teal mask through his shaggy black hair before glancing up at my voice. Oddly his expression seems to fall seeing me. “Oh, what’s up, Stan?” He greets, sounding unfriendly as he aims his focus back at the remaining snack cakes on the shelf. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I could take a likely guess as to why he doesn’t seem excited to see me right now. “Not too much,” I lie, examining his armful of goods including chicken noodle soup. When he looks too caught up in pondering over the cakes to continue our conversation, I slip in, desperate for answers, “Hey, would you mind telling Kyle—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know you acted like a real dick, man?” He cuts me off, shooting an icy glare straight through me. “I don’t know all the details of what you did, but you really shook him up. And now, you can’t even bother to talk to him yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even with my seniority and minimum of 6 inches I have over Ike, he’s still somewhat intimidating. I stand frozen in place. “I tried to call, but he didn’t answer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ike shook his head before snatching up a box of mini coffee cakes, which became Kyle’s favorite ever since Tweek recommended them. He muttered, “Well try harder,” as he left the aisle and me speechless.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The kitchen is flooding with golden, artificial lighting to compensate for the outside cloud coverage. I shut the cabinet door with a sigh, finally finished with putting away everything I bought from Walmart. I rub the side of my fingers across my nose which still felt stuffy from getting worked up on the drive home. Hearing Ike get so irritated with me over how I made Kyle feel made it worse than it was, which I didn’t think was possible. I feel so selfish. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In truth, I was avoiding talking to Wendy. Not only Wendy, but Kyle. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t by calling him, but after a night like that, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> he deserves more than a conversation over the phone. Once I talk to Wendy, I’m one step closer to having to confront things with Kyle, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain my outburst without completely shattering our friendship. I don’t want to be that Stan that stood in front of Kyle’s door under my porch light and got rejected. If I could go my whole life hiding my feelings for him over losing him completely, I’d make like the FBI and keep things confidential. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As scared as I am to try and resolve Kyle and I’s fight, the separation from him is going to drive me insane on its own. Hearing how he was feeling after catching Ike at the store was motivation enough to get myself together. Knowing what I need to do, I force myself to grab the car keys from the counter and trudge through the crunchy, thin layer of ice crystallizing on the dead grass of the yard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slipping into the driver’s seat, I reach for the aux and crank up the volume. The last thing I need is to be zoned out in my thoughts while on the road. One might think that loud music might also be distracting, but right now, anything is better than reflecting on the fight from a few nights ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I steer onto the road and cruise down the route to Wendy’s house that I naturally memorized after growing up with her and our miraculously on and off relationship over the years. Time passes in a comfortable manner as I sing along with my shuffled playlist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soon enough, I reach the olive green building and park the car. I flip down the mirror to make sure I don’t look too disheveled. We did just break up, after all. I scratch the small bits of crust from my previously watery eyes and adjust the brown corduroy jacket I’m sporting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brisk air creeps in with the opening of the car door. A honk and flash of the headlights signifies the car is locked, so I make my way to her front door. With a four-tap knock, footsteps begin inching towards the door. It pulls open to reveal someone unexpected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Bebe?” I begin, not really wanting to talk to anyone outside of the original plan. “I, uh, need to talk to Wendy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without moving her stare, she says, “She’s not home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not falling for the bullshit, I reply, “Then why are you at her house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bebe turns around at Wendy’s presence as she comes up behind her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay. I’ll talk to him,” Wendy says to her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bebe squints. “Are you sure? I can get him to leave if you want me to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,” she insists with a smile that instantly disappears as she turns towards me. “Stan, go home. I don’t know if you’re here to explain yourself, try to get back together with me, or whatever, but I’m done here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I earnestly shake my head, raising my hands in surrender. “No, no. I’m not here to change your mind. I promise. Can we just talk, please? In private?” I add.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bebe obnoxiously scoffs from the couch. “I’ll wait in your room.” She drags herself up the stairs as Wendy lightly giggles in amusement and probably partially in appreciation for her best friend’s protectiveness, which could have been almost offensive. I brushed it off anyways. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wendy waves me inside, and we walk over to the living room, not wasting time taking off my shoes or jacket at the door. I sit in the chair adjacent to where she is on the loveseat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She speaks first, questioning, “What did you want to talk about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I slouch forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Well, I wanted to apologize. What you said the other day I didn’t understand at the time—about me seeming to care about Kyle more than you,” I explain slowly, thinking over every word. My voice faltered slightly as I spoke his name. It felt almost forbidden to say under the unsolved circumstances I caused. She nods, listening intently. “It’s not that I didn’t care about you when we were together, because I did,” I continue. “It’s just,” I hesitate, rubbing my hands over my thighs nervously. “I think you were right—about me and him. It took me forever to realize and if you were implying what I think you were the day we broke up, I was completely oblivious to it before then. Or, maybe I just didn’t want to accept it. I’m not sure, if I’m being honest,” I ramble. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know you’re really dancing around what you’re trying to say here, Stan,” she urges me on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what I’m talking about,” I say, nearly sounding as if it was a question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It sounds like you don’t want to admit it completely to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is stupid. I stare at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you need to,” she insists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is so unnecessary. My heart beats increasingly faster and more aggressively with each passing quiet second. “Ugh, fine!” I grunt with disdain. “Yes, I love Kyle!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smirks, simply saying, “I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, then why did you make me say it?” I ask with an unimpressed tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because, I think you need to admit it out loud. Clearly you’ve been upset over figuring it all out. It took you long enough to,” she mutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I guess she isn’t wrong. It almost feels like a weight lifted off of my shoulders. It technically is no longer a secret that I have to hold alone. “Please, don’t tell </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I plead with newfound worry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs politely, ”I wouldn’t do that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I exhale a breath of relief. “Good, thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I clasp my hands together while a wave of remembrance of the main reason I came here washes over me. “But, what I mainly came here to say was I’m sorry. I didn’t treat you like a good boyfriend should. And then, when you tried to tell me I shut it out. It was really shitty of me. I’m sorry,” I repeat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just so you know, I did also have some personal things of my own that kind of went into the decision, so it’s not completely on you. I mean, we’ve been unhealthily on and off for a long time. It’s good that we finally can make a set mutual decision to let it stay in the past. Friends, though?” She offers, hopeful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think I can work with that,” I accept, cracking a grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>suppose</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’ll accept your apology, too,” she says in a teasing voice. “I can understand that you clearly had some inner turmoil going on,” she jokes, gesturing her hands towards me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” I exclaim with a grin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs in return. “I’m happy for you, though, for figuring things out. Are you ever going to tell him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shocked expression crosses my face. “Absolutely not! Are you crazy? That would ruin everything!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll never know that for sure unless you try,” she fails to encourage me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking my head, I start, “No. I’d rather him never know and not lose him than destroy a lifetime of friendship,” I explain, reiterating my thoughts still fresh in my mind from this morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wendy purses her lips. “Now, you of all people should know that Kyle wouldn’t be the type of person to do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sit in thought for a second, looking at the floor. “I know. I just can’t take any chances. Besides, we’re sort of arguing right now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She scrunches her eyebrows in wonder. “Over what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, I guess I kinda blew up in his face. I don’t know, it was stupid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm,” she hums. “You should probably call and talk to him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I huff. Little did she know I already tried that. “Yeah, probably.” I stand up slowly, an oncoming anxiousness whispering to me that it’s time to end the conversation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She follows suit and walks me to the door. “If you say so,” she sighs with minor disappointment strung in her voice at the lack of my apparent effort before opening the door. I step out onto the front porch, turning around to face her. “Oh, also, I heard about what happened. If you do call him like you </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span>, tell him I’m sorry to hear about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The panic in the back of my head grew enormous. “What?” I shoot out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks at me with surprise. “I thought you knew—well, I guess it was maybe less likely since you’re fighting and all—but he got Corona.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Holy shit. “Seriously, dude? What? How?” I stammer in astonishment. I can’t believe of all the people in this godforsaken town that Kyle was sick with COVID-19. “Wait, who told you that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Heidi did,” she answers, sympathetic. “It was just recent, I believe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A new weight finds  itself threatening to squish my already dwindling hopes, barely masking the alarm in my head. “Oh. Are they, you know, having a thing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wendy appears virtually disgusted. “No, Heidi is a very loyal girlfriend—even to that asshole, shell of a man, Eric Cartman.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her words usher in an unfortunately likely idea. I halt in the midst of the ugly thought. “Fuck, Wendy I gotta go,” I scowl, now rushing to my car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The confusion wears off of her face into looks of understanding as she concludes what I was thinking. “Okay, see you later, Marsh,” she calls out, leaning inside the doorway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bye, Wendy!” I shout back. “And thank you for talking to me, I appreciate it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome!” She beams, waving bye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I smile back, pleased with how our talk went. I shouldn’t have worried and wasted so much time thinking about it. Thankfully, I got that out of the way, but now there’s probably worse things at hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without bothering to connect my phone to the aux or even adjust the radio, I drive off down the street. It’s basically impossible to inch along and obey the unnecessarily slow speed limit while passing these rows of houses. I can’t help but speed just a little. Anger is already boiling inside of me despite having no confirmation of what I’m afraid genuinely happened to Kyle. Sure, Kyle and I may be on bad terms right now, but the fact that Heidi knew this before me and happens to be dating the biggest fucking douche ever doesn’t sound good already.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A group of people crowding the street, coincidentally in front of Kyle’s house, stops me. I pull over a small distance away, already guessing what’s going down. The relatively high pitched screams that I know so well connect to the face of their rightful fiery owner as I begin walking down the sidewalk and can peer around a few kids spectating at a smart distance. I’ll admit I’m a bit nervous, under all the anger, to be seeing him after knowing we were both hurt so bad over the fight I caused. I brush it off and keep walking, shoving my hands in my pockets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You motherfucking fat fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Kyle screams, sounding hoarse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I can tell that Cartman’s putting on this tough façade that could be broken down any minute. He sports a smug smile, saying, “More like what’s wrong with you, Jew? You’re sounding a bit hoarse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you snuck into Kenny’s house and then mine to put his dirty snot rag on my face! You’re out of your damn mind!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I knew it. Cartman’s done similar shit before, but it’s still just barely shocking every time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kenny’s basically a breeding ground for diseases, Kyle. It’d be stupid of me not to use him to my advantage” Cartman pokes, annoying as ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle grumbles, “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” as he storms closer to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cartman backs up. “Hey! Maintain six feet, sick boy!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just wait till you’re six fucking feet under!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I speed up, breaking through the spread out formation of other teenagers around them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I make eye contact with Cartman who looks too pleased to see me. “Aw, how sweet! Your f*ggy little boyfriend came to take care of you!” Several pairs of surrounding eyes turn to look at me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Any other time I would’ve pushed off his stupid comment, and Kyle would’ve insulted him, but instead he whirls around to face me. Cartman takes the opportunity to step further away from Kyle and his virus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan, I swear, get the fuck out of here,” he orders with heavy annoyance in a breaking voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh oh! Looks like there’s some trouble in paradise!” Cartman laughs. I’m gonna lose it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up! Just shut the fuck up! What’s wrong with you, dick?!” I yell sternly at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle furrows his eyebrows at me. “How about you ‘shut the fuck up’? I can handle this myself!” Why is Kyle even yelling at me right now? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m literally helping you!” I protest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, you’re fine </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, huh? How about you go? Get out! Go, go, go, go!” He shouts with a point aiming far, far away, evidently mocking me during my unnecessary blow up from the other day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and it’s hard to tell, but if I didn’t know any better I’d think I could hear a cracking in his voice, but not the kind you get from a sick, sore throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kyle, please, can we not do this right now?” I beg, still irritated. Blinking away my blurry vision temporarily, I notice Cartman enjoying this a little too much and shoot him a glare that goes uncared for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t just pick and choose how you want to treat people!” He squeaks out angrily with now red-rimmed eyes, flapping his arms off his sides. Some of the kids surrounding the three of us seem to look uncomfortable at how embarrassingly personal the drama they were being entertained by before is becoming. “You’re so goddamn selfish!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m trying not to get frustrated at how much he’s embarrassing me in front of these people. He’s openly bashing me and I know I was in the wrong before, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>goddamn</span>
  </em>
  <span>! “Could you quiet the fuck down?” I yell, accompanied with an involuntary sob and regret.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle’s red hot face falls from furious to a dead expression and my heart does with it. Before I can open my mouth and say anything at all, he sniffles and scolds, “Don’t talk to me.” I want to go after him, but instead collapse on the asphalt as he turns a cold shoulder and progresses inside, us both dripping in tears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thankfully kids awkwardly shuffle away from the circle, except for two. I pull my head away from my hands and see Cartman, unfortunately, and Butters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow, you guys must be synced up on your period.” Cartman soaks in the moment. Even in front of them I’m embarrassed, and don’t bother to respond.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw, leave him alone, Eric,” Butters defends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cartman sighs, before unusually listening and walking away. “Whatever, Butters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world feels like it’s spinning around me and I’m so worn down from bawling my eyes out, but I can’t seem to stop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand reaches out in front of me. I reluctantly peek up, to see Butters still waiting. To save myself the last bit of dignity I have, I accept his gesture and he pulls me to my feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want to talk about what happened?” He asks a bit nervously. I shake my head no without another thought. “Okay. Well, I’m sure Kyle will come around. He’s just a little upset is all,” he tries to comfort me, fiddling with his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m so overcome with emotion and allow myself to lean forward into a hug that he happily returns. The warmth radiating from Butters and his sincere personality coaxes out more sobs into the shoulder of his fleece zip-up. He pats a gloved hand over my shaky back. “I’m a terrible friend,” I cry out. “It’s my fault, not his.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sympathetic, Butters murmurs, “That’s not true. I think you’re a great friend, Stan. It’ll be okay. Why don’t you go talk to him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pull away gently, wiping my eyes. “He doesn’t want to see me right now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The noise of a car rumbles from behind and we step out of the middle of the road. “You know how Kyle is. He’s just angry right now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I refrain from debating with Butters and allow myself to nod against the fear practically crawling from my ears. His eyes dart back and forth between the car, now slowed to a stop beside us, and me. “I think Mrs. Marsh is here for you,” he informs me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I look up just as she rolls down her window to speak. “Hey boys! Why don’t I give you a ride home? I don’t think you should be hanging around here right now.” She must’ve found out about Kyle getting sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Butters looked at me for approval, and I nodded towards the car as an answer. He smiles, grateful, and follows, slipping into the backseat. “Thank you, Mrs. Marsh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s no trouble. Sheila called from work to let me know that Kyle’s sick, though. You shouldn’t be around him right now,” she apprises. I can practically feel her desire to ask me what I was crying about, but she doesn’t, at least yet, which I’m thankful for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It tears my heart apart to watch Kyle’s house disappear in the distance and think of him in his room alone after the further damage done to our relationship. I have to fix things. I couldn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that. With a clenched jaw and eyes, I turn, suddenly very interested in the window, and wait impatiently but silently for the ride to be over.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for leaving the chapter end so shitty again. I promise it’ll get less angsty soon:)</p>
<p>also, I’d like to add to feel free to request any prompts you’d like written. this story is my main task right now, but I think it’d be cool to try it out when possible. I always read comments and appreciate them all so much!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Open Up Your Window</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“He’s seen nearly every side of me through everything. Tonight, he’ll finally get to see the one I’ve been keeping from him.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s driving me crazy to just sit in my room with this dense fog hanging over me. I’ve been on autopilot since the second I stepped into my mom’s car. My body went through basic motions of hastily eating dinner at the table, playing old online computer games, and tossing a hackysack in my room subconsciously while my thoughts were in overdrive. </p><p>I’ve lost track of time while simply sitting upright and dreaming in bed. Acknowledging the blatant darkness outside my window, I turn my head to look at the clock. It reads 1:15am. Now would be the perfect time to go. Pushing against the thoughts shouting at me to go to sleep for the night, I rise to my feet with a huff. It seems as though the day revolved around this moment, yet now that it’s here, I don’t feel ready for it. </p><p>In an attempt to drown out the doubts of my plan, I stretch for my phone, not surprised at the lack of notifications, and select my personal playlist. I try to train all my energy on listening to the music, and it semi-works. On my tiptoes, I prod over to where my brown jacket lies on the corner of the bed. With all the time I had earlier, one would think that I could’ve planned a better outfit, but I’ll have to settle for a basic navy shirt with distressed jeans and chunky brown boots. I pull the jacket over my shoulders and stand still while exercising the idea of going to the bathroom mirror to freshen up somewhat. On second thought, the later I stay up, the more likely Kyle is to be asleep and I don’t want to risk waking my family up. Plus, it’s just Kyle, right? He’s seen nearly every side of me through everything. Tonight, he’ll finally get to see the one I’ve been keeping from him.</p><p>I’m about to slip out of the house, but retrace a few steps to grab my red puffball hat. It looks a bit silly now, but there’s something comforting about the nostalgia that it brings me. I’m going to need any comfort I can get when my plan backfires. It sounds pessimistic, but this feels like somewhat of a last resort. It feels like one, however there’s also a part of me that wants to break my heart free from the box I’ve been crushing it in. Keeping it in the box will inevitably shatter it with time, but if I free it and it breaks, at least I can get it over with. I quietly scoff a laugh to myself at the thought that being honest with him has even a slim chance of working in my favor. Note that it’s slim. The small glimmer of hope in my heart makes me giddy and I grin, stepping foot in the fresh setting snow. </p><p>I take as many shortcuts as possible, weaving around fences and bends. The quick route to his house is burned into my brain by now. My heart beats faster and faster and I speed up until I’m practically in a sprint, racing against the free falling snowflakes. Upon arriving at Kyle’s yard, I cautiously walk through the gate, gently pulling it closed behind me. I pause, catching my breath, with nerves suddenly flaming up inside of me. </p><p>With a shaky exhale, I make my way to the thick, tall tree shooting up near Kyle’s second floor window. We both planted it together awhile ago. If I can remember right, the town’s adults were acting crazy because they thought we were running out of oxygen from deforestation and were all going to suffocate. Unfortunately that isn’t really surprising. So, every family was given a sapling to plant, and the kids were encouraged to plant them so that we all could learn and get involved with the environment. Kyle and I helped plant each others’ trees with minimal help from Kenny, who ended up mostly messing around in the dirt with Butters. I vividly remember Butters not wanting to get his clothes dirty, afraid to get in trouble. The idea was to plant our trees by our windows so that once they grew tall enough, we could climb them up and down, straight to our rooms or the yard without having to walk through the house. Sheila had been wary about where we wanted to plant it, but we ended up being able to convince her to allow it. She was really into environmental advancements at the time. Since the tree got big, we never actually ended up using it much. Little did I know that our plan would now come in handy. </p><p>Gripping the tough bark of the trunk, I work my way upwards, moving one hand and foot at a time. Oddly, it’s like I can feel a hyper-awareness of every nerve in my body. My hands sting with the cold, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I sense each crease in my boot pressing against my foot as it bends with each climbing step. At the joint of a thick, relatively sturdy branch, I stop, balancing myself. It feels a little creepy to be looking in the window at a thankfully awake Kyle while he doesn’t even know I’m here. He sits under the covers of his bed with the light of his phone illuminating his face and strings of his headphones dangling. He definitely looks sick, and I even catch a sniffle. </p><p>Cutting off my thoughts, I finally alert him with a tap on the window, causing him to jump in shock and fling his phone face down beside him, earbuds ripping out of his ears. Before I can say anything, he aggressively makes a pushing motion, mouthing the words, “Go home.” He coughs, seeming pained. I feel terrible about what he’s going through. Fuck Cartman, seriously. </p><p>“Open the window,” I tell him, enunciating the motions of my lips while making a lifting motion with my hands. He rolls his eyes at me before barely cracking the window, just enough to hear each other. </p><p>“Stan, it’s late and cold. I’m not doing this right now. Go home,” he orders drearily, but leaves the window ajar.</p><p>My mind blanks, and I let out a simple, “No.”</p><p>“Oh my God,” he sighs in a scratchy voice, rubbing his hand over his head. “Please just leave. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I am not in the mood to argue with you.”</p><p>I can tell he’s tired. A breeze flows through the air and I pull my numbing hands into my jacket sleeves. Abruptly, I blurt out, “I love you.” He stares back blankly, likely confused about how that came out of nowhere. The words even shock me as they spill out. I imagined telling him somewhat more romantically rather than being so blunt. When he doesn’t say anything, I nervously try to recover, continuing, “Like, I’m in love with you.” </p><p>The silence he’s giving me feels like an eternity. It’s impossible to look him in the eyes any longer. I stare downwards, searching for anything to remove me from the vulnerability I feel. He speaks slowly, sounding wary, “Really?”</p><p>Looking back up, I see his unreadable face. I could easily just deny it, let my fears get the best of me, and avoid what I’m terrified is going to come, but I don’t. “Yes, really. I’m so sorry, Kyle,” I apologize genuinely, feeling a burning of tears behind my eyes I desperately strain to push away. “I shouldn’t have blown up on you. I promise I didn’t want to. I was getting so frustrated with myself and just can’t keep it from you any longer if it means this. I really love you,” I repeat, more because I feel sort of proud of myself for admitting it than anything. </p><p>A small smile gradually works itself over Kyle’s lips and forms a bright grin, my anxiousness building with it. “I love you, too,” he says back, almost awkward with giddiness. My heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest and run miles and miles away. “I was never going to tell you because it seemed obvious that you didn’t like me like that.”</p><p>I chuckle, “How was it not obvious I did? I figured our fight from the day you came over to my house last would’ve at least tipped you off.”</p><p>Both of our smiles falter slightly, but still remain. “I honestly could barely process what was happening. Why were you so upset with me?” He asks, looking slightly hurt. </p><p>The sympathy and regret I feel for what I did is practically spilling out of me. “It was so stupid,” I shake my head, glancing up. “I was having such a bad day, and you were making me feel better, but then you said you loved me and it didn’t mean what I wanted it to. God, I feel so stupid for that. I guess I couldn’t handle it—obviously.”</p><p>“Well, I meant everything I said that night,” he smiles, heartily coughing with a painful groan. </p><p>My heart flutters and I can’t help but smile. Even sick he looks as beautiful as ever, slightly frizzy curls topping his portrait-like face and sharp jawline. Maybe I’m biased, but to me, Kyle is the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen. “I should’ve never kicked you out like that, dude. I’m really sorry.”</p><p>“I guess I’ll accept your apology,” he quips haughtily, making me giggle lightly. </p><p>“I’m sorry you got sick. Cartman’s an asshole. Why do we even remotely put up with him?” I wonder, suddenly irritated.</p><p>“Hello? I’ve been saying this for years!” he rants with growing irritation.</p><p>“Yeah,” I answer knowingly. “I know you were really worried about it happening, too. He’s such a fucking dick.”</p><p>“I’m gonna beat him to the ground the next time I see the fatass,” he growls, seemingly becoming aware of his angrily loud voice before toning it down. “I obviously didn’t want to get the virus to begin with, but I’m more worried about Ike.”</p><p>“Ike?” I question.</p><p>He looks a little distressed as he explains softly, “Yeah. Since he has an autoimmune disease, it’d be extra bad for him. The last thing I need is him getting sick because of me.”</p><p>“But I just saw him at the store earlier?” </p><p>He sighs, “I know. The bastard went and got me snacks to try to make me feel better.” </p><p>“Oh,” I hum in understanding, recalling my run in with him from the morning. </p><p>A comfortable silence temporarily rests over the air until we both look up at each other and fail to hold back content laughs. “I really missed you.”</p><p>“I missed you, too, dude. I wish you weren’t sick so I could actually come in.”</p><p>“I wish you could, too, but I’m not taking any chances of getting you sick.”</p><p>A breeze scratches against my rosy cheeks and I shiver. “Yeah, I know.”</p><p>He seems to notice and suggests, “You should probably get back home now. It’s freezing.”</p><p>As much as I want to brush it off and say no, it feels like even the saliva in my mouth is about to ice over. “I guess I probably should,” I accept, rolling my eyes.</p><p>“Goodnight, Stan,” he says warmly, pulling up the covers to slip back under. </p><p>I’m about to climb back down when an idea sparks in my mind. “Hey, don’t I get a goodnight kiss?” I kid around hopefully. He quirks a brow at me, and I laugh, leaning forward with puckered lips. </p><p>He takes the hint and shakes his head before bowing towards the window. Our lips smack against the glass in a sandwich. If it was up to me, it wouldn’t be there, but I don’t let it ruin the moment. We pull away, revealing lip shaped marks on the surface. </p><p>“You’re such a dumbass,” he chuckles fondly. “Okay, you need to go home.”</p><p>I rise upon my feet, bracing myself by grabbing the branch above me. “Fine,” I drag out. “Goodnight, Ky.”</p><p>He returns my bright smile and says, “Goodnight, Stan,” before pulling the window fully shut.</p><p>I descend quickly down the trunk, hopping on scattered beats through the gate and down the barren street. Unable to contain my excitement any longer, I laugh joyously and pump my fists in the air.</p><p>“Hell yeah!” I shout out into the emptiness around me, skipping and spinning. Everything feels so surreal. I spent so long crying over this and I feel kind of stupid for it now. Maybe that’s what made the moment so much sweeter, though. Sure, maybe it wasn’t some generically romantic, over-the-top charade where I brought him out to a sunset on the beach and professed my undying love for him, but it was our moment. Nothing in the world could ruin it for me. I love him so much, and my best friend actually loves me. </p><p>Holy fucking shit—he loves me.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For all of you that stayed with me throughout the making of this story, I appreciate you so much! It did take awhile, but it’s finally come to a conclusion, and I hope it was a satisfying one. Thank you all for reading! Feel free to leave your honest opinion or requests for new stories. I love reading your comments sm&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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